


Towards

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen, M/M, One Shot, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based vaguely off the Lemony Snicket quote: "When someone is crying, of course, the noble thing to do is to comfort them. But if someone is trying to hide their tears, it may also be noble to pretend you do not notice them."</p><p>Hermann finds Newt in the lab after the clock stops, and realizes that sometimes all you can do is wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Towards

**Author's Note:**

> I just cranked this out. I haven't written proper fanfiction in ages, but hopefully these dorks will provide me with some well sought after inspiration to keep writing. Feedback is, of course, very much appreciated. Unbeta'd and it's currently 4:30am here, so hopefully there aren't too many glaring mistakes.
> 
> Thanks!

Hermann smells the sharp scent of formaldehyde and Kaiju guts before he even opens the door, sounds of celebration echoing from down the hall, wrapping around the Shatterdome in a unified wave of euphoria and relief tinged with sorrow from the lives they’d lost along the way. The noise and humdrum fade as they near the lab; a little corner sheltered from the festivities, bathed in fluorescent light and the gentle thrum of machines. A pulse, like the faint blip on a radar fighting to make itself known, resonates in Hermann’s head as he steps into the lab, shutting the door behind him.

Residue from the Drift.

Even without it though, he knew what he’d find within the depths of the lab, hidden amongst the chalkboard equations and Kaiju slime that were already being deemed obsolete- unnecessary, a reminder of the past. The clack of Hermann’s cane echoes in the seemingly now-cavernous lab, a steady _tick-tick-tick_ as he crosses the room. He drags himself along, fingers sweeping sentimentally over an incomplete report addressed to Pentecost as he stops at his desk. _Well,_ he thinks to himself with a morose smile, _at least I won't have to pull another all-nighter to finish it in time._

“You’re on my side of the room,” he calmly says to the figure sprawled out in his chair. There’s no malice in the words, no empty threat that they’ve both become so familiar with hearing. Only a general statement.

A sniffle. Hermann watches as the shadows dance across Newt’s face as he fidgets, a quick glisten at the corners of his eyes escaping.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” he says, voice raspy as he forces a grin and starts to stand. Hermann gives him a gentle shove in the chest with his cane.

“You might as well stay sitting. Probably contaminated my chair with all that Kaiju viscera.”

Newt just sniffles again, lifting his hand to wipe at his eyes in a motion poorly disguised as pushing his glasses back up. “Yeah,” he says weakly, but still fighting, always fighting. Hermann holds back the urge to frown, but the blipping in the back of his mind is insistent, steady, a mere sample of the melancholy coursing through Newt. He can feel the omnipresent and clashing emotions, pooling and bleeding into his chest; He can feel the waves of sorrow and confusion and pained realizations of _this is the end_ coalesce into a dull ache and Hermann grips his cane tighter, lips pressed tight as he stifles a sigh.

He can feel the embarrassment at being caught wrestling its way through it all, cutting sharp and deep.

Hermann props himself against the desk and reaches out, placing a hand on Newt’s shoulder, fingers digging in tight with a quiet promise to wipe this moment from the books because Dr. Newton Geiszler doesn’t cry. Not like this. Not since he was twenty-one and broke down after he couldn’t stand the hushed whispers and barbed insults anymore _(Why’s he so weird? Someone forgot their meds. I heard he supports the Kaiju attacks)._ Not since he holed himself up in his room for four days and swore, swore he’d be the one that people would be afraid to look at and away from in fear, intimidation, loathing, awe, or a combination of all four. He’d be the loudest voice in the room, the brightest fire that might also happen to be the most dangerous if anybody got too close. He’d be a rock star.

He is a rock star.

And rock stars don’t cry unless they want to, so Hermann lets his hand fall from his shoulder and silently reaches for Newt’s curled on the desk. He pries the fingers apart and works his own in between, and then squeezes, his presence like a buoy, spurning off the tumultuous waves as he keeps them both afloat, thrumming with _this isn’t the end, it never was, it’s just the next chapter._

Hermann smiles softly, tiredly, noting the dried blood under Newt’s nose and matching red eye, before pointedly looking away from the other man. He fixes his eyes on a still-wriggling Kaiju specimen in a jar.

“I was thinking of buying a flat in England.” he says.

Newt doesn’t look up as he clears his throat. “Yeah?”

Hermann nods. “Yeah, bound to be some great teaching opportunities at those schools, or at least a good place to start a career in giving lectures.”

Silence falls upon the pair for a moment before Hermann speaks again.

“Might need a flatmate, though. Someone I can trust, not too sloppy, can keep his shite together.”

This elicits a small chuckle from Newt before he wipes at his eyes again. “I’m sorry, but have you met me?”

“Unfortunately,” Hermann deadpans, earning a quirk of the lips from Newt, whose thumb has begun rubbing slow circles on Hermann’s hand. “But I did the calculations, and it appears, against both of our wishes, that you’re the most suitable choice.”

“I guess I’ll have to relent then, huh?” Newt swallows back another surge of tears as his voice breaks, a mess of emotions running over his face.

“Seems so,” he says, “seems so.”

They sit there, hidden away with their hands joined in a scene plucked out of time. Hermann pretends he doesn’t hear the choked sobs from his colleague as he starts a one-sided conversation about some new formulas he was looking at, but each hiccupy-silent-cry is like an individual blow to his chest, but the buzzing at the back of his mind knows it’s what Newt wants.

He knows that sometimes, it’s better to pretend you don’t see the tears and the red-rimmed eyes.

Sometimes, all you can do is sit there, waiting; waiting for the rush to die down, for the world to start spinning again, for the future, with whatever it may hold, to open its arms and embrace you once more as you stumble towards it.

And Hermann, with his hand in Newt’s, will do exactly just that.


End file.
